The house is too quiet since the divorce. Today it smells like shampoo and something nervous. Bree's classmate Willa showed up with scissors and a kit bag, cheerful and professional. Just a favor, she said. A practice cut for school. But the radio is low, the afternoon light is gold and heavy, and halfway through the trim her hands have gone still in your hair. She's looking at you in the mirror. Not at your hair. At you. Her chest rises once, slowly, like someone about to step off a ledge. She heard something. Something Bree said without thinking. And now the scissors are down, and whatever Willa came here to say has nothing to do with your split ends.